


if lightning were too quick

by mikimi (nauticalwarrior)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Five Year Mission, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 15:19:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15754383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nauticalwarrior/pseuds/mikimi
Summary: Something bright and hungry burns within Jim, like a streak of red-raw fire nestled under his skin.(spoilers for all three reboot movies)





	if lightning were too quick

**Author's Note:**

> this started off as something totally self indulgent and then it got really long! i hope you all enjoy

For Jim, it starts earlier than it should have. It didn't boil over, didn't become a  _ thing _ until after Krall and Khan and the  _ Narada _ , but it existed before that, before Tarsus even. When he looks back on his life, it feels like it  _ should _ have come out of the turmoil of Tarsus, should have rebranded him and marked him in a way he had not been marked before, born from the forge of famine and forest. But for Jim, it starts even before the starving and the fighting.

Jim remembers Iowa before he ran a car off a cliff. Uncle Frank didn’t cook much; he was only watching the kids as a favor to his sister. They were too much work as is, and in his stead, Sam would cook macaroni and cheese every night the had it in their pantry. The replicators didn’t work well after a thunderstorm when he was tiny and too small to remember, and since his mom was off-planet, she never noticed. Frank complained about it but wouldn’t fix it, eating his own food in his house four miles from Jim and Sam’s. 

But the thing was, Sam didn’t want to stay and Jim didn’t want to make him. He could see the fight in Sam’s eyes, feel how badly he yearned to run away, to never come back. Sam was too young, so he just disappeared for a few days at a time: to a friend’s house, to the library, to the forest, to anywhere but home. Jim was more patient, but he was also more destructive. He skipped dinner every night Sam was gone, like his brother would sense it from across town and come home to kiss him goodnight, like his mom would somehow know and leap from her starship, crashing down to Earth to give him a hug. Neither of them did, and Jim drove Frank’s car off a cliff because he was sick and tired of being ignored.

Frank didn’t start cooking for him, and Jim didn’t start behaving himself. He called Jim’s mom and yelled at her, threatened to leave Jim in an empty house with no money until he rotted, threatened to put him in jail until he was an old man, threatened to strangle him right there. Frank would never hit him. He’d just yell and yell and yell about it, promising pain but never delivering, so Jim was only a little scared of him and not all the way. He was twelve when he was put on a shuttle, en route to the ship that would deliver him to Tarsus. He remembers the metal of the seats, cold and unforgiving under his thighs, the rumble of the shuttle bay doors closing around the tiny vessel. Out of spite, he refused to eat anything on the ship.

On Tarsus itself, things were different. He was placed in a kind of boot camp-- like what he’d imagined, only instead of being harsh and cruel and punishing, the people there were kind and careful and soothing. They called him his name and not “kid,” talked to him when he was moody instead of yelling at him, and they didn’t leave or let him leave no matter what. 

Every morning, he went to breakfast in the mess hall, ate fruit that looked like peaches dyed a pale green and tasted like pineapple and honey. Tarsus was a real gem, his instructors would say. One day, after it was fully settled, it’d probably be an agricultural powerhouse. Jim had agreed, at the time. Part of his “treatment” involved working in the fields, even the machines did just fine, and it was really amazing how well the dark, almost black soil of Tarsus grew plants so fast, flowers blossoming and tree bearing fruit in half the time it might have taken on Earth. He turned thirteen and the camp had a party for him, shouting and lighting sparklers that streaked the dark air with blue and green and red. His birthday cake was chocolate flavored, the cocoa brought from Earth in a shipment earlier that week because it was too cold on Tarsus for tropical plants to grow. The temperate stuff grew well, and dinner was often a mixture of Terran and Tarsian vegetables, sometimes meat if it came in on a shipment. Livestock didn’t do well on Tarsus, and they were less profitable than plants, anyway.

When Jim was upset, the instructors did not let him skip meals. Instead, they would sit with him and talk through his feelings, let him tear paper into tiny shreds when he was angry and let him hide under his bed when he was scared. If he was lonely, they’d bring him hot tea and watch old Earth movies with him, wrapped up in blankets on the couch. Usually, the other kids would join in, and Jim was surrounded by people who were nice to him, who talked to him. He felt like he could do anything, even forget being left alone for days with nothing to do except wallow in his own spite.

They stopped letting the kids go out into the fields. He wasn’t supposed to know, but Jim overheard that the reason why was because of a dangerous fungus, one that rendered their crops toxic, eventually killed the plants themselves. The instructors did not seem scared, merely frustrated, but that changed around the same time Jim started noticing less food with each meal. One day, when he was angry and spiteful and upset, they did not complain when he skipped a meal, and then he knew something was wrong.

Kodos gave out papers, saying that because of the famine, half of the population of the colony would be sent back to Earth. Jim didn’t care that it didn’t make any sense; he wasn’t leaving Tarsus no matter what. He and a handful of other stubborn, “troubled” kids from the camp hid in a storage unit, scarves wet and wrapped around their mouths to keep out the fungus’s toxic spores. Jim’s glad they did because the shuttle turned around mid-journey and crashed into one of Tarsus’s mountains, killing everyone inside. He had friends, instructors, people he cared about on that shuttle. He was supposed to die with them.

Kodos knew that not everyone got on because the headcount at boarding was less than four thousand. Jim knew that he and his friends (six of them, himself included, all tired and scared and hungry) didn’t have long before they were safe. They ran.

The forest around the colony was thick and overgrown, heavy branches littering the space between mountain-high trees, thickets of brush and briar twisting over the dark, moist soil. Everything grew so well out here, far from the fungus and bathed in light and moisture from the sky. They still couldn’t find enough food, not ever. Six kids is a lot, and none of them were trained to survive. Jim ate berries that made him puke and leaves that made his throat swell but fed everyone else just fine and he hated his allergies more than anything except Kodos in those first few weeks.

After a while, things were both harder and easier. He was tired, always, so tired and so weak. The trees were solace from the sun, which still managed to burn their skin even through the shade, and protection from the rain and hail when it fell. They all sipped dirty water from puddles because thirst burned their throats until their voices were raw, all chewed on tree bark because there was very little they could eat and even less they  _ knew _ they could eat. Jim could only eat one kind of plant, a root, without being ill, so when they found it, it was his. He stashed it in his pockets, washing it when they came to larger puddles, after everyone had drank, kept half for the long walk. 

Weight melted off of him like he couldn’t believe. Every day he was smaller, more bones poking through his muscle to touch the skin. He was the worst off-- he couldn’t eat and what he could, he insisted on sharing. At least, he was the worst off until Cathy got sick, throwing up and throwing up and throwing up until there was nothing left in her, even air. She stopped breathing, and they stopped feeding her. Jim felt heavier in his stomach from her loss, and he gave away all of his food for the next three days, until the only kid older than him, Jacques, asked him if he was trying to die. He wasn’t, so he ate his stash of roots and also some grass and a fruit that tasted like sewage and made him break out in hives but didn’t come back up.

When Starfleet came, after months of wandering through the woods, trying to escape soldiers that may not have been alive to chase them, Jim and his friends were picked up by a shuttle that they all had to be sedated to board. After he woke up, he did not want to talk, did not want to eat, did not want to breathe. Everything was too much.

He did eat, of course. He ate and ate and ate as much as the doctors would give him, begged for more from his hospital bed on Earth. They gave him as much as he could handle without hurting himself, and he inhaled it. He grew healthy physically faster than he did mentally, and by the time the doctors were whispering  _ discharge _ , he had not spoken one word other than to ask for food, to be let go, to have more water, to see his friends. He did not talk about Tarsus, did not talk about Iowa. The therapists tried to weasel it out of him, pulled on the strings that held him in one piece, but he did not give. He said he was fine, he was glad it was over, he was happy to have been rescued. He plastered on a smile and let every question fall off of his shields, and they let him go. 

Iowa was different, but not better than before. Frank had moved to Colorado after hearing about Tarsus (he blamed himself for it, like he’d somehow made the fungus grow on the field and somehow made Jim be on the wrong list just by sending him there). Jim had the house to himself all of the time, because Sam and Mom were in space and didn’t need to look after him. His mom met him on the first week; she showered him with kisses and hugs that felt fake. She only stayed for two days.

Jim ate but did not  _ eat _ . Stuffing himself with macaroni and cheese felt so stupid after Tarsus, after not eating for days and days and watching his friends drop dead from sickness and starvation. He ate just enough to maintain his weight, forcing himself through protein shakes that crammed the day’s calories into one drink, started working out so he wouldn’t look like the survivor of a famine anymore. He put on muscle, and he felt strong enough to carry his thirteen-year-old self out of harm’s way.

He was louder, in Iowa. He talked all the time, about anything but his past, about how pretty his latest fling was tonight, about how some burly guy at the bar was in his way. He got in fights that stung his face and broke his nose, had sex that left him feeling more empty than before, but at least he was distracted. He drank and drank and drank until his stomach was a deep well that nothing could fill. Food was replaced with a equivalent quantity of alcohol, and solitude was suddenly unbearable. Jim lived in the bars, died in the space between.

He was a genius. His mom’s textbooks from her time at the academy were his leisure reading, letting calculus and physics and advanced chemistry boil in his head instead of Tarsus and hunger. There was nothing on Earth for him, but he would not leave because leaving is what ruined him in the first place. 

One night, he mentioned something about his studies to a one-night-stand and she sat up from where she’d been lying next to him.

“You’re smart,” she’d said, brow furrowed and visible even in the dark.

Jim had shaken his head. “Nah, I just read when I’m bored.”

She shifted, turning to look at him. “Why aren’t you in college?”

He can’t remember what happened after that, just that he couldn’t imagine himself living a normal life after what happened. He was doomed to this, doomed to always searching for the next distraction from his memories. It was his burden to bear.

Until Pike showed up, dared him to be a starship captain. Jim couldn’t ignore the challenge, couldn’t let it die. He dropped everything (he didn’t have much in the way of long-term commitments, anyway) and ran away from his empty house, to the academy.

The guy who puked on his shoes on the shuttle day one, Bones, followed him around for the first few days, mostly because Jim kept talking to him and Bones seemed to enjoy it instead of being annoyed like he rightfully should have been. Jim skipped breakfast every day, eating lunch in the mess with Bones, eating dinner in his room while he studied. It wasn’t easy, the academy, but it was hard for different reasons than Iowa was. Back then, there was far too little, and Jim had to make more and more to fill the emptiness, but at the academy, it was the other way around. Between class and studying and parties and his friends, he never had time. He kept forgetting to eat dinner, and Bones kept rolling his eyes at him and bringing him food from the mess, wheedling Jim into helping him get through assignments the doctor couldn’t find the time to study for while also working in the clinic. 

They made a good team until Jim busted a hole in their plans to work on the same starship by getting cocky and hacking into the Kobayashi Maru. The incident reminded him of how annoying he was, how he was so loud and so obnoxious. He didn’t expect McCoy to get his dumb ass onto the  _ Enterprise _ , and he didn’t expect to meet the man who had killed his father there. 

When he charged onto the bridge, he felt vulnerable and stupid, like he’d gotten on stage to perform a routine he’d never practiced. Pike listened, but it wasn’t enough. Jim got the drill to turn off, the hot wind of Vulcan blasting his skin on the platform, throwing him and Sulu about on their fall, but Jim couldn’t get Spock to listen to him.

He went from the heat of the Vulcan sun to the impossible cold of Delta Vega, snow pressing up against him like it was hungry for every bit of heat he carried. When he was being chased across the ice by one beast and then another, giving up never crossed his mind, even when the stones made of ice scratched against his back, bruised his legs and his ribcage. When older-Spock waved the torch and saved him, Jim did not think about abandoning the  _ Enterprise _ . He was one mind, one thought, pushing him back into the stars. 

The mind meld was something else. Jim knows beyond any shred of doubt that this Spock, who had another Jim, a Jim that wasn’t already in a million pieces when they met, already knew of Tarsus. He didn’t know if it was a constant between both worlds, that all Jims were doomed to that fate, or if Spock had plucked the memory from his mind, but Spock knew. It felt wrong, having him know.

Nero died and so did a tiny piece of resentment in Jim, a poisonous seed in his liver. He was okay, for a while, distracted by healing his physical injuries and dealing with the aftermath of Vulcan. Things still hurt, but not in the same way.

And then the Khan thing. Jim saves a planet and his first officer (oops!) and they take away his starship. Starfleet gets bombed, and Jim has to go to Kronos to catch the guy responsible (yikes!). The missiles are people-popsicles (wow!), and everyone except for Jim's crew is at least a  _ little _ evil when it all comes down to it. Everything is a blur because Jim wants to save as many people as he can until suddenly it's his life or theirs and it isn't even a question. He leaps without looking (he did look, he knows what he did) and dies for the greater good. Everything ends pretty, with James Tiberius Kirk, hero.

He wakes up. His blood is his enemy's but he still pulled off the stupidest stunt ever, probably. Bones yells at him and tells him never to do it again, but Jim can see tear tracks on his cheeks. Recovery is slow and boring but not as much as after Tarsus. 

The Krall thing is easier, mentally, probably because he doesn't actually die. Or because he's used to it. He's betrayed! He's trapped on a planet! He may have to survive here indefinitely! He's running from soldiers! It's all fun and games until your life-or-death missions remind you of when you nearly died as a child.

Jim does fine, though. They're not on the planet for long until he gets his hands on Krall-- no, Edison --so the worst part is not knowing if his crew will be okay, not knowing if they can get the weapon into the vacuum in time before it gets into the ventilation and kills  _ everyone _ . It all ends well except for that his ship had to be completely rebuilt, but so long as his people are okay, Jim is okay. It's fine.

The  _ Enterprise-A  _ is pretty close to, but not exactly, his old ship, which is good and bad. It's newer and swankier, but it's not the ship he was in to save the world three times and it's not the ship that yanked him into captaincy. Jim might wallow in his emotions sometimes late at night, maybe over a drink with Bones, but he's doing well. It's weird. Between the banter on the bridge, chess with Spock, and hanging out with Bones, Jim gets just the right amount of people to feel alive but not rubbed raw, falling apart at the seams. He doesn't know what to do with himself, when he's not always  _ on _ , saving the world or some kids or himself. The downtime is hard, even though he knows he needs it.

He starts skipping meals again. It takes two years into the mission for him to do it, but once he starts it's impossible to stop. His free time that isn't with his two best friends (he can call Spock that now, too, which is wonderful and strange) is spent in the gym, working out until he doesn't feel like a live wire anymore. It's good, and it's easier eating two meals than three, easier working out than resting.

He has to get a physical, which he fights more than he should (sickbay and hospitals remind him of the time after Tarsus), but Bones isn't having it.

He grabs Jim by the bicep, grip firm and warm. “Come on, Jim. This is ridiculous; it'll be quick.”

Jim tries to yank his arm out of Bones’ grasp, but not  _ really _ . “Bones, I'm fit for duty.”

“That's not the only reason these are required, you know,” Bones gripes, rolling his eyes. “Something that's a non-issue now might blow up to be life threatening later. It's preventative.”

Against his better judgement, Jim says, “Fine.”

Bones leads him into the turbolift, orders the thing to sickbay. Jim doesn't resist, but Bones keeps his grip, like Jim might actually run away. He never told Bones about Tarsus, but the doctor knows something's wrong. Jim can tell.

Bones tugs him down onto a biobed. “I'll try to use scanners as much as possible so it's faster, you big fucking baby.” The biobed readings beep, and Bones looks at the screen with a frown. “Pick your feet up, off the ground.”

“They're not on the ground.” Jim twists, trying to see the screen.

“Hmph. You've lost weight.” Bones grabs a medical tricorder from a table. “Been eating enough?”

“Just like I normally do,” Jim says, carefully avoiding the topic of all those skipped meals. 

“Well, it's not enough, obviously.” Bones runs the scanner over him, and the frown deepens. “Damn it, Jim, are you  _ living  _ in the gym?” 

“I've been working out,” Jim says, crossing his arms over his chest. “It's relaxing.”

“Uh huh. And you've been doing it too much. Your muscles are torn, and you've got the makings of a couple stress fractures if you don't quit it with the punching bags.” Bones sighs, running a hand through his hair. “No gym at all for a week, then we'll check in.”

Jim stares at him. “Can't you just use like... a regenerator or something?”

“For this?” Bones scoffs. “There's no damn point if you're going to hop in the gym again right afterwards. No, you're taking a break and after that you're not going to push yourself this hard again.”

“Bones,” Jim says pleadingly. “Working out is good for me. I need the release.” 

Bones pauses, then shakes his head. “There's other stuff you can do. Try some stretching--  _ light _ stretching, until I clear you for the gym. Tearing up paper helps, if you're angry.” 

Jim remembers the instructors on Tarsus that had him rip up paper. They're dead. 

“Yeah, sure. Is that all?” He stands up, trying not to glare at his friend for doing his job.

“No, one more thing.” Bones enters information into a computer, presumably Jim's file. “Start having some snacks between meals, and make sure to finish your plate. Don't miss meals. I want you to gain five pounds.”

Jim nods. “Got it.” He turns and walks out, and Bones lets him. He doesn't eat dinner that night, because it feels weird not being able to work off his stress on the kicking pad, so he just goes to sleep instead.

The next week is... difficult. Jim doesn't work out, but he also doesn't eat dinner (or breakfast, some days), and he snaps at Chekov on the bridge for something so stupid he has to go and apologize later. 

Spock meets him for chess six days after his appointment, like every other day.

“Captain.” Spock nods to him when he enters Spock's quarters. They've been alternating who hosts, although their quarters are almost identical. 

“Spock, it's good to see you.” Jim sits down, the chair warm under him. Spock's turned the heat down to what feels like slightly above ship normal, colder than he probably keeps his room normally. Jim always makes his halfway between Vulcan and human standard, but he's been getting cold enough lately that he might start going with Spock's preferred heat level. 

“I am gratified by your presence as well,” Spock says, then gestures at the chessboard on the table. “I believe it is your turn to begin.”

“Yeah, it is.” Jim grabs a white pawn, moves it forward. “How are you?”

Spock moves a pawn as well. “I am adequate.” He glances up from the board, at Jim. “Are you well?”

Jim blinks. “Yeah, I'm good. Why?”

“Your skin has developed goosebumps, and your complexion is markedly paler than usual.” Spock folds his hands together. “If I were to speculate, I would assume you are cold.”

Jim makes his move. “I'm a little chilly.” He's tired, and his body is slow and sluggish. It's because he hasn't been in the gym, hasn't worked up a sweat. 

“The temperature is higher than should be comfortable for a healthy human male. I suggest you visit the sickbay at your earliest convenience.” Spock moves a piece forward, glancing back down at the board for a second.

“I'm fine, Spock,” he says, knowing full well Bones wants him in the sickbay tomorrow  _ anyway _ . 

Spock does not seem satisfied with that answer (not that it's easy to tell), but he doesn't say anything about it for the rest of the game. 

Jim doesn't eat at all the morning before seeing Bones, and he doesn't have a reason other than that he just didn't feel like eating. He doesn't need a reason; he's a grown ass man.

Bones gives him a  _ look _ when he walks in, but doesn't say anything, lips pressed tight together. He gestures at the biobed; Jim sits down. Bones sighs; at the biobed reading, the tricorder reading, or both, Jim isn't sure. 

“Well, I'm glad you stayed out of the gym.” Bones sets the tricorder down, fiddling with what looks suspiciously like a hypospray. “You haven't been eating, though.”

“I ate!” Jim  _ did _ , one or two meals a day.

“Not enough, evidently.” Bones raises an arm, hypospray in hand. “I'm giving you a vitamin booster, and after this we're going to lunch. No gym for another three days, then we'll check in.” 

“Three days?!” Jim leaps off of the biobed, backing away from his friend. “I took a whole week off!”

Bones raises an eyebrow. “Jim, you’ve been overworking yourself.” He moves closer at an angle, and Jim doesn’t miss the subtle herding away from the exit. “I know you don’t like this, but you need to calm down.”

Jim feels his back hit the wall of the sickbay, and--

_ (he thinks that maybe he could stand to calm down a bit except he doesn't like this feels like he's being hunted Bones has his hand raised there's nothing in his stomach the walls look nothing like trees but it's close enough) _

\--he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Jim, take a deep breath,” Bones says, his voice closer. “I'm not going to touch you without warning, but right now you need to relax and calm down.”

Jim shakes his head, but he sucks in a deep breath anyway. He's not so out of it that it's hard to breathe, but he'd been holding his breath without realizing. His head clears slightly with it, and he opens his eyes to see Bones waiting about three feet away from him, two hyposprays in his left hand. 

“I’m good,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “Sorry.”

Bones takes a slow step forward. “I’m going to give you these, Jim.”

Jim nods. He’s still a bonfire burning bright, but he knows better than to fight. Bones puts one hand on his upper arm, and Jim feels the hiss of a hypospray-- not painful, just cold. After only a heartbeat, he feels foggy, soft. Jim blinks.

“Mild sedative, not enough to knock you out or anything. Just to help you calm down.” Bones presses the other hypospray into the same spot. “And the vitamins. I’m going to keep you here on observation for the rest of the day.”

Jim lets himself be led to the bed, lets himself be laid down. The drug in his veins makes him tired and loose in a way that is neither pleasant nor painful-- it simply is. 

Bones takes him to dinner, not lunch, after the sedative has cleared from his veins and left him empty. Jim feels raw, like he’s a ten year old who’s been up all night crying again because Sam isn’t home and Frank yelled at him for dropping a plate on the tile floor. Bones stops Jim before he can order at the replicator, and the doctor asks the machine for a chicken breast with pesto sauce, broccoli and cauliflower with cheese, and roasted potato slices. The plate that comes out has a lot more green than Jim would ever order for himself, but it does smell good. 

Bones sits with him at one of the tables, this one tucked into the corner of the room and mostly out of sight. 

“I want you cleaning that plate, Jim,” Bones says, spearing a green bean from his own plate and shoving it in his mouth. “Stressed or not, you need to eat.”

Jim nods, cutting a bite-sized piece from his chicken. He doesn’t offer up a joke or start onto a funny story like he usually would. He’s all out of words for today.

The meal is mostly silent, save for the scraping of utensils against the plates and the low din of the mess hall, the crew laughing and talking over their dinner. Jim thinks that he should be doing something like that, too, having fun with his crew. That’s sort of his job, as the captain.

And he does a good job pretending, he really does. Most days he’s able to clear the low buzz of memories and swirling emotion from his head, able to not just function but  _ thrive _ . He wouldn’t be delusional to say he’s doing fine (he’s the captain of the  _ Enterprise _ , he’s got an amazing crew, and he’s saved the world more than once), but it’d also be a stretch to say that he’s always  _ happy _ . He just does a good job at blocking his head out, most of the time. 

Bones leaves him with strict orders to eat three meals and two snacks every day, using the pre-set meals on the replicator only and not choosing his own. He also tells Jim that he should talk to someone, whether it’s him or another doctor on board. Jim knows that Bones has psychology training, was practically an expert on it, but he doesn’t want to sit down and talk this through. Some things are better left buried.

So he eats three meals, two snacks every day and stays out of the gym. He replaces the gym with time spent with the crew, chess with Spock, or standing on the observation deck and staring off into space, literally. It doesn’t feel better, but Jim can’t say it feels worse.

Spock is more attentive to him than ever before, and it makes Jim wonder if he noticed the short period of extra crazy in Jim. Jim doesn’t bring it up, but he makes sure to meet Spock for a few meals, mentions how he misses the gym, things like that. Each time, Jim likes to think he isn’t imagining the minute relaxation in Spock’s posture. 

Jim gets better at chess, now that they’re playing it more often. He starts beating Spock, not just taking longer than most opponents but actually  _ winning _ . Spock seems amused by this, and Jim’s sure of that because Spock mentions it.

“It is illogical,” he starts, right as they’re putting the game away to head to sleep, “but I seem to have developed a fondness for your ability to best me.”

“Really?” Jim asks, almost dropping the rook in his hand.

“Yes.” Spock puts the pawns in his grip into their places. “I would be gratified for it to occur more often.”

After that, Jim practices against the computer (it isn’t the same) whenever Spock is too busy to play. It’s good for him, he thinks, doing something with his mind in lieu of doing something with his body.

Jim begins to wonder if perhaps there was more to his skipping meals than frustration and habit, as he’d thought.

Bones seems to notice the difference as well, because he claps Jim on the back after a month of limited exercise and extra food.

“Well, you’ve gained the weight back!” He gestures to the biobed’s screen. “Your vitals are better, too, not that they were bad in the first place. I think you’re ready to go back to the gym full time. Though,” he puts a hand on his hip, “keep it toned down compared to before your break. There’s a difference between working out and hurting yourself.”

“Got it, Bones,” Jim says, grinning. He’s been missing his time in the gym, missing the rush of adrenaline as he strikes the punching bag, the strain to his muscles when he lifts weights. It’s a good feeling, and he wants it back.

“Off you go, then.” Bones waves his hands in a pushing gesture, like he actually wants Jim gone (he doesn’t; Jim can tell he’s happy that Jim is doing better and just doesn’t want to show it.).

Jim goes straight to the gym, even though it’s technically lunch time. He’ll eat after, because the last thing he wants to do is just land himself in sickbay again. The gym doors  _ whoosh _ as they open, and Jim makes a beeline for his favorite punching bag.

To his surprise, he’s not alone. It’s sort of a strange hour to be working out, but a tall, lean figure is practicing some form of martial art on the pad near the kicking and punching pads. Jim recognizes Spock perhaps a moment too late, but he can easily blame that on the fact that Spock isn’t wearing his science blues. Instead, a plain, skin tight black shirt and plain black sweatpants adorn him. 

“Hey, Spock.” Jim steps into the space, sticking to the edges so he’s not in Spock’s immediate punching/kicking area.

“Captain,” Spock stills, resting in a standing position. “What brings you here?”

“McCoy cleared me for full gym access,” he says, grinning. “Wanna help me kick it off? We can spar.”

Spock tilts his head slightly. “Indeed, we can. However, Vulcans possess a significant amount of strength beyond that of a human. While you have been cleared for exercise, I believe it would be--”

“You won’t hurt me,” Jim interrupts.

Spock pauses, a short inhale. “Perhaps not intentionally, no.”

Jim shakes his head. “We’ll just hit soft, aim to touch and not strike. I bet you’ve got way more control over stuff like that than I do, anyway.”

Spock nods, slowly. “Vulcans have the privilege of enhanced bodily controls. I find your suggestion to be amenable.” He shifts one foot back and rotates his hip, bend both knees slightly-- a fighting stance. “Shall we begin?”

Jim shoots him a cocky smile. “Let’s go.”

Spock is quick-- quicker than Jim expected, but not by much. His kick strikes in the direction of Jim’s stomach, but Jim neatly avoids it with a step back, dropping into his own fighting stance. Spock’s probably had formal training for this, he muses as he sidesteps and throws a punch at Spock’s shoulder. Jim learned in bars, mostly.

Spock deflects his punch with the outer edge of his forearm, hitting the side of Jim’s fist and not the front. It’s one of the most neatly executed blocks Jim’s seen, but it doesn’t distract him enough to miss the way Spock follows the block with a strike of his own, a sort of sweeping hit with the side of his hand. Upon blocking it with a hand of his own, Jim notes that the Vulcan knuckle bones must be extra strong on the inside edge, where the index finger meets the palm. He’s seen the move before, when Spock was fighting hostile aliens. 

His hand stings at the impact, but not much-- Spock has fairly good control over the motion. Not that Jim expected anything else. Feeling brave, he crouches and slides in closer, angling his elbow towards Spock’s side. The motion feels smooth, natural, even though he’s kind of out of practice. This wasn’t something he’d used in bars, when he was trying to lose on purpose so that he could be distracted by the pain. No, this was for when he was pissed off and angry and wanted someone  _ else _ to hurt. He didn’t put quite so much force into this hit, though, because he doesn’t want Spock to feel pain.

Turns out he shouldn’t have worried. Spock sidesteps neatly, twisting his abdomen to dodge the blow. Too quick for Jim to react, Spock sets one hand on his outstretched elbow and  _ pushes _ , just hard enough to knock Jim off of balance and send him to the floor, but not hard enough for the impact with the padded ground to be anything more than a slight  _ thump _ . Jim gets up in a flash, bouncing back up onto his heels. He swears it looks like Spock is smiling-- not in a visible way, but Jim can  _ feel _ it. There’s no way that Spock isn’t enjoying this just as much as he is.

Spock strikes again, sweeping one leg along the ground in a swift movement that Jim has to jump to avoid being tripped by. As if anticipating the reaction (and, let’s face it, he probably was), Spock throws a carefully aimed punch to the center of Jim’s stomach. It connects, but there’s no power to the blow.

Jim lands on his feet, grinning wildly. “Nice one.”

Spock simply stand in his fighting position, head tilted slightly. “Talking while fighting is illogical, as it requires oxygen.”

Jim laughs, shifting his weight to spin around and throw a kick. “You’re talking more than I am!” 

Spock blocks the kick with his palm. “Am I?” He copies Jim’s move from earlier, although with a Vulcan flair, twisting his hip as he aims his elbow at Jim’s face. Jim just steps back, then uses the momentum to throw a quick kick that brushes Spock’s left side, hardly grazing it.

“Yeah,” Jim laughs, dodging a punch. “This is fun.”

Spock raises an eyebrow, and the expression on his face almost distracts Jim enough to get hit by a kick. “I am enjoying this as well.”

Jim grins wildly as he throws another spinning kick, this one quicker. It brushes up against Spock’s cheek, and Jim has to pull his leg back at the last second to avoid hitting him harder than intended.

He’s about to say something cocky, but Spock grabs his leg with his right hand, reaching across his body, and tugs it, dragging Jim close enough to him that he can deliver a backhanded fist to Jim’s chest with his free hand. Jim’s see Spock fighting before, and he knows it’s a devastating move at full power, so the gentle tap of it to his pecs is almost hilarious. Jim’s sweating and his lungs are heaving to catch up with all of his movement, but he feels alive and raw, but in a good way. 

He steps away, tipping his head back to laugh a breathy laugh. “This is great, Spock. I’m beat.”

“I do not think, had this been a true fight, you would be defeated as of yet,” Spock says. He’s a little out of breath, too, but not by much.

“I meant I’m tired.” Jim wipes the sweat off his forehead. “We gotta do this more often.”

Spock nods. “I would not be opposed to that course of action.”

And so they do. They alternate chess and sparring, one each day. It’s mostly because Jim’s determined not to have Bones come after him with a hypospray, but also because he can’t make up his mind which activity is more fun for him. They’re both something special, something precious he couldn’t get on Earth, even for all his drinking and fighting and fucking. Jim lives for his private moments with Spock.

With Bones, too. Now that Jim doesn’t feel like Bones is breathing down his neck about eating, he finds himself wanting to spend more time with his friend. He resumes what used to be a weekly tradition; they get plastered together whenever they’re off duty at the same time on an evening, ship’s time. Jim doesn’t drink as much as Bones, who doesn’t drink as much as he used to (emergencies don’t only happen when they’re off duty) but they both pretend to be completely drunk and in some ways it’s actually  _ more  _ fun. Jim feels alive.

Maybe he still wants to skip some meals, wants to punch his frustration into a punching bag until his fingers are swollen and hot, but he doesn’t. Jim doesn’t do much of anything when he’s frustrated, when he’s got lightning rushing under his skin and he can’t get Tarsus and Iowa out of his head. The incidents are less frequent, but just as powerful as before. 

It’s on a night like that, a night where--

_ (he can’t breathe because he keeps forgetting to and because he can’t forget the way the sticks crunched under his shoes and then his bare feet when the sneakers fell to pieces) _

\--he’s having trouble keeping his head on straight that Jim cancels a sparring match with Spock. It’s not that he couldn’t use the outlet, but--

_ (dirty hand lashes out at him, grabbing, grasping for the food he doesn’t have because none of them have any but this man will kill him eat him) _

\--Jim thinks he might have trouble pulling his own punches when he’s this distracted. God knows he can’t even control his own  _ breath _ , let alone his fists. 

The comm unit is sitting on his desk, and he opens it, dialing to Spock’s frequency. He should do this in person, really.

“Hey, Spock, Kirk here.”

A rustle of light static on the other end, then Spock’s voice.

“Captain”

“I, uh,” Jim says, faltering. “I don’t think I’m up for sparring tonight. I’ve got a bit of paperwork to finish.” He knows his voice is a touch shaky, but he hopes it’s something that Spock will assume is the fault of the comm unit and not Jim.

“Understood.” Spock pauses, and Jim pretends he can hear him breathing even though he can’t, not really. “Captain-- Jim. Are you well?” 

Jim swallows. “Uh, yeah. Just tired. Kirk out.”

He closes the comm unit, like a coward, and he only barely resists the urge to throw the damn thing against a wall. It’d be stupid, because then he’d have to get a new one and someone would ask what happened to it, but damn does he want to break something right now.

Jim wants to go into a bar, wants to punch someone in the jaw and feel the joint pop. He wants to dig his nails into skin and have them come up bloody. He wants to throw a glass against a wall and watch it shatter.

He settles for wrapping his right hand around his left forearm and squeezing with all of his might, clutched against his stomach. It hurts, sure, but Jim doubts he has the grip strength to actually do anything. The human body is funny like that, because--

_ (when Frank got really mad, sometimes he’d get really really close to hitting Jim but he’s hit the wall instead and hurt his hand and then he’d yell and yell that it was Jim’s fault even though Jim didn’t do anything and if Frank decided to hit him it would bruise) _

\--he could easily break a bone by punching something hard enough, if he was trying, but he can’t do much just by squeezing. There’s probably some alien out there that’s the other way around, a scavenger or herbivore that adapted to climb or something. Jim digs his nails in, not to cut his skin but for the extra oomph.

He hasn’t eaten dinner, or lunch, because he could feel it starting hours ago, even; he could feel the heat rising to the surface of his skin, bubbling under the surface. Jim hates this. He’s a starship captain; he’s saved the world. He has no reason to be  _ sad _ , or whatever this is. 

There’s a knock at his door. Jim jerks, almost jumping out of his sitting position, and he drops his arm, giving himself a good shake. 

“Yes?” Jim does not tell the person to come in. He’s sweating, and there’s a red band on his left forearm from his hand. It won’t bruise, but the blood is right under the skin.

“Jim,” Spock says, because of course it’s Spock. “I wish to inquire after your health.”

“I’m fine, Spock. Thanks for the concern.” Jim tries not to grit his teeth too much, since Spock is only being polite.

“Earlier,” Jim imagines Spock’s thinking face as he talks, “you seemed agitated. I have determined, based on my prior knowledge of both you and your species, that there is a high probability you are still in an unfavorable mental state.”

Jim runs a hand through his hair. “I said I’m fine. I’m just stressed out.”

“May I come in?” Spock’s voice remains firm, unyielding. “It may be an illogical desire, but I wish to ascertain your state for myself.”

Jim sighs (almost groans, but that’d give him away). “Fine. Computer, let him in.”

The door clicks, then slides open. Spock is there, neat and proper in his science blues. One eyebrow raises slowly as he looks Jim up and down, appraising him.

“Like what you see?” Jim says, wrenching his face into a flirtatious smile in a (probably futile) effort to distract Spock.

“On the contrary,” Spock says, “you appear to be experiencing distress. Additionally, there is evidence of an injury on your arm.” He takes a few long steps forward. Jim resents the way he says it all so impartially, like Jim is a rather ill-behaved lab rat.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it, Spock.” Jim moves his arm away from Spock just as the Vulcan leans down to get a closer look at it. “Look, I’m alright, okay? You can get back to science, or whatever it is you do in your free time.”

Spock blinks slowly, but his expression doesn’t change. “In my free time, I spar with you in either mental or physical disciplines. Those activities are the ones I prefer to engage in, given the option.”

Jim doesn’t say anything. He’s glad Spock enjoys their time, yeah, but he’s in such a bad mood already it doesn’t matter. He just wants to scream and lash out, wants to drive a car off a cliff and maybe not jump out this time. That thought hits him like a train, and he stares at the ground in front of him. Maybe he shouldn’t have jumped out.

“Jim?” Spock moves, sitting on Jim’s left side on the bed. If Jim didn’t know better, he’d say Spock looked worried.

“Like I said, don’t worry about it. This,” he waves a hand in the air, like he could point at it, “This is just something I have to deal with. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“Your statement implies that you are not ‘fine’ now. Fine has variable definitions, but by the most commonly accepted one, this should be a cause of concern, logically speaking.” Spock folds his hands in his lap, neatly. “I am no expert in emotional matters, but if you require someone to--”

“Spock, seriously.” Jim cuts him off because just  _ no _ , Spock is not going to listen to him rant about this shit.  _ Nobody _ knows about this, not even Bones. Classified information isn’t in his file, not the one the medical staff have.

Jim breathes out. “Don’t try and use logic for this, either. I  _ know _ it isn’t logical. Just knowing that doesn’t fucking help.”

Spock nods, the barest inclination of his head. “I believe I may have some understanding. Not of your specific situation, but of knowing something is illogical and being unable to cease regardless of the logic.”

Jim looks at Spock, remembering that his is the guy he incited to rage on the bridge so many days ago. Spock lost his planet, his mother. Sometimes Jim forgets that Spock has felt emotions, mostly because he doesn’t  _ show _ them.

“Right,” Jim says. “Sorry.”

“No apologies are necessary, Jim.” Spock looks at him, gaze level and face clear of emotion. “If you believe it would be beneficial, I would be willing to contact Doctor McCoy about this.”

Jim shakes his head. “No, I don’t need a doctor for this, I’m not--” He cuts himself off. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Is it not?” Spock turns his head slightly, looking at the wall in front of them. 

“I don’t know,” Jim says, because he doesn’t really. “But I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

Spock nods. “Is there an alternate activity to conversation which would prove beneficial to your mental state?”

“You don’t have to talk like you’re writing an academic journal.” Jim doesn’t mind, not really. It’s a good distraction. “I want to break something, but I feel like either Scotty or Bones would have something to say about that, depending on what I broke.”

Spock stares, his facing expressionless. Thinking, Jim suspects. “You are experiencing anger.” 

“No,” Jim grits his teeth. “That’s not it,  _ and _ I said I don’t want to talk about what I’m feeling.” He stands up. “Let’s go for a walk.”

Spock steps back, towards the door, pressing the controls as Jim approaches it. Jim could pretend he thinks the veneer of calm and control over Spock is because he truly doesn’t mind helping the dumb emotional human, but Jim’s well aware that Spock wouldn’t let himself show his dislike toward the situation. It’s easier for Jim to concentrate on the cool of the ship’s floor under his sock-feet, the sounds of his vessel humming around him. He walks faster than is polite, because he feels like he’s running, just a little bit.

Spock matches his pace, and if he notices the speed, he gives no indication of it. Jim doesn’t let himself consider talking to him about  _ feelings _ because that’d have to be one of the stupidest ideas Jim’s ever gotten in his head. Instead, he heads for the gym, even though he has no intentions of sparring with Spock. Anywhere else and he’d punch a hole in something important.

Jim knows that Spock knows where they’re going, but his first officer simply walks with him, not commenting on the fact that Jim’s started sweating, that his hands are shaky. It’s good to have a first officer who won’t boot you out of your metaphorical throne because you’re a  _ little _ emotionally compromised during your off-duty hours, Jim thinks. Maybe it’s something close to trust, something akin to friendship they’ve built up over three disasters and two years and one death between them. Jim likes to think Spock is a good friend of his, and he actually wouldn’t be shocked if Spock felt the same. Not that he’d say it. 

Jim can’t stay distracted with thoughts of friendship long because he sees a glint of light that isn’t anything like Tarsus, but it  _ is _ like Iowan sunlight reflecting off of the hood of a vintage car, and suddenly he feels sick to his stomach. Spock wouldn’t want to be friends with someone like him. It’s a stupid thought, a childish one, but Jim can’t help but think it. He’s too impulsive, too emotional, too  _ human _ for Spock. Actually, no. He’s too  _ Jim _ for anyone. 

The gym doors slide open as they approach, and Jim walks in first, Spock waiting a step out of politeness, presumably. Jim makes a beeline for the kicking pads, not stopping at the place that they usually spar. He can see Spock raise an eyebrow in the corner of his vision. 

“Captain, if we are not sparring, to what end have we come to the gym?” Spock’s voice is level, tinged with a hint of curiosity that Jim’s learned to hear. 

“I’m gonna punch something,” Jim says, stopping in front of the firmest punching bag. “And I’m not gonna pull my punches.” He strikes out at the leather bag and it swings away from him on its chain-- not far, because it’s built with a magnet to hold it upright without aid. But his knuckles do sting. 

Spock blinks, but Jim doesn’t pay attention. He hits the bag again, harder. The noise is far from sweet, closer to sickening. It’s almost like--

_ (someone getting hit with a club, the blood rushing from their face as their leg breaks and that kid has to be eleven or twelve, not much younger than Jim but still too young and he remembers that Frank would joke about hitting him with a baseball bat but he hadn’t thought he’s ever actually see it) _

\-- something he’s heard before. The memory that rises unbidden to the surface of his mind does nothing but pump his limbs with more pointless adrenaline. He hits the bag again. 

Spock makes a noise beside him as Jim pulls away, a tiny bloody smear where one of his knuckles must have split, dark like wine on the black pleather. Jim punches again, same hand, before Spock can say anything. The pain is good, refreshing, but not  _ right _ , not the same as getting his dumb ass beat in a bar. He tries the other hand, for good measure. 

It doesn’t work. Jim tries something out of Frank’s book, because his head’s--

_ (throbbing with pain because Frank told him to stay in his room since he was annoying and he hates being yelled at so he’s been in here for hours without any water) _

\--somewhere far away and not completely in his body at this point. He turns slightly, takes aim at a metal beam (painted white to look neat, probably), and swings.

A warm hand catches ‘round his wrist, grip just strong enough to feel but not to hurt. Jim twists away, and his hand falls to his side. Spock is right next to him.

“If you are to strike that column, there is a high likelihood you will cause harm to yourself, Jim.” Spock watches him, eyes moving over his face, down to his bruised hands. Jim breathes in and out, heavy.

“That’s sort of the point.” Jim wipes sweat from his brow, the salt stinging the split on his second knuckle. 

Spock tilts his head. “You intend on inflicting bodily harm upon yourself?” It shouldn’t be a question (it isn’t, not really) but Jim can hear it.

He takes another breath, this one deep and on purpose. “No. No, I don’t. Sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize; however, you now require medical attention. I will accompany you to the medbay.” Spock does not acknowledge the other part of Jim’s statement.

“I’m not lying, Spock,” Jim says, gritting his teeth.

Spock does not grit his teeth. “I did not suspect you were. It is logical for you to receive medical attention for the damage inflicted on your hands.” 

Jim shakes his head, then groans. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go get chewed out by Bones.”

“I do not think any chewing will be involved, Jim,” Spock says, but he takes a step towards the door in perfect unison with Jim’s own movement. It feels strange because even though Jim isn’t literally leaning on Spock, it kind of feels like he is. It isn’t  _ nice _ , but that’s only because nothing can really feel nice or good or great when he’s like this. 

Jim lets the hallway blur into metal and blue and grey and white. It’s just the hallway he’s been in a hundred times over the past two years. It’s just the turbolift he’s gone up and down in every day for the past two years.

The medbay is right by the turbolift doors because it’s practical. Logical. Spock probably likes that. Jim doesn’t, not usually, because it gives him less time to stall Bones when he’s been cornered for some medical treatment that reminds him of--

_ (doctors ignoring the way he won’t smile unless he’s asked how he’s feeling, won’t talk unless he’s spoken to first, ignoring the way his breath catches at night, ignoring him like mom and Sam and Frank did until Jim falls through the cracks yet again) _

\--when he was a kid. Jim’s better at avoiding medical treatment than he is at receiving it, anyway.

The doors open, and they must be lucky (unlucky?) because Bones is right there. Sort of. He’s within eyesight, standing near a table at the back, picking up some stray papers, but he raises his eyebrows almost to the ceiling when he sees Jim and Spock in the doorway.

“Do I even want to know?” Bones sighs, shoving his hand into his medical pack and pulling out one of the medical tricorders he’s always got with him. He makes a beeline for Jim, not Spock, but Jim can’t even find it in himself to be offended about that. 

The tricorder beeps, and Bones sighs. “So I guess you stopped listening to me about the gym, huh?” He grabs Jim’s left wrist, more gently than his voice would have suggested.

“Jim struck a punching bag several times with more force than is strictly necessary to practice combat techniques,” Spock says, the traitor.

McCoy nods, his teeth picking at a chapped spot on his lip. “Sounds about right. C’mon, Jim, sit down.” He gestures to a biobed. 

Jim complies, swinging his legs as soon as his butt is on the cool plastic surface. He kinda wants to punch it, but he thinks Bones would sedate him if he tried that right now. 

“I’m gonna use a regenerator on this,” Bones waves to his hands, “but if you punch yourself bloody again, I’ll put you under surveillance.” 

“What?” Jim jerks his head up. “I just punched something too hard!”

Bones rolls his eyes. “Uh huh.” He grabs a dermal regenerator off of a counter not far from the bed. “You’re also skipping meals again.”

“Not really,” Jim says, brow furrowing. “I do that like, once a month. Max.”

Bones grunts. “Then you should be eating larger meals. You’re high maintenance, kid.”

Jim huffs out a breath of air, but something about the statement makes resentment curl in his gut. Of course he’s high-fucking-maintenance. That’s why nobody wants to pay him attention, usually.

“Denying oneself the requisite nutrients for functioning is illogical,” Spock chimes in. Jim feels like a little kid getting scolded by his parents as Bones runs the regenerator over his right hand, the skin there stinging slightly.

“I  _ know _ that.” Jim sighs, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling. Next, he’s going to get a lecture from Bones, told to stay off the bridge for a few days. Then he’ll whip himself back into shape for long enough to get cleared for duty, except he’ll do it all again and sooner or later someone will catch on that he’s actually  _ not _ cut out for this. It might take until the end of the five years, but it’ll happen. Jim is fighting, tooth and nail, for every inch he’s won so far; he doesn’t intend to give anything up. 

Bones swipes the machine over his other hand. “I’m not giving you a choice, this time. You’re talking to me about this, or you’re talking to another one of my staff, but you’re not gonna brush it off and pretend nothing’s wrong.”

Jim wants to yell. “Yeah, no, I’m not going to talk about my  _ feelings _ with anyone.” If Bones didn’t have a firm grip on his wrist, presumably to hold it still under the regenerator, he’d have bolted. 

Bones grits his teeth. “Actually, you  _ are _ . I’m ordering you as CMO. Also, you’re not cleared for duty until you do.”

“I punched something too hard! I can’t be the only one who’s ever done that!”

“It’s not just that, and you damn well know it,” Bones says, pulling away. “Do you want me to go through all of the reasons right now, in front of Spock?”

Jim stands up, even though there’s really not space to. His forehead almost knocks into McCoy’s. He doesn’t know why he’s fighting, not really. He just knows he can’t (won’t) tell them about this stuff. It’s buried too deep.

“I am already aware of the Captain’s agitated state,” Spock says. “He experiences emotional disruptions that cause him distress.”

Jim whirls around to look at him, even though he could have just turned his head. “Oh, so I’m having mood swings? Am I a teenage girl now?”

“I did not say that.” Spock stares him down. Jim wants to turn away, but now it’s too late.

Jim groans, presses the palm of his hands into his eyes. Stars burst in the dark space.

“Jim,” Bones starts, then sighs, audible and painful. “I’m not suggesting this to make you feel worse.”

“Why are you doing it, then?” Jim hates how his voice has gone small, hates how he’s acting like a cornered animal when he should have just screamed into a pillow and gotten over it like a grown-ass man. He’s a fucking starship captain; he’s fought aliens and humans alike. And he can’t have a conversation with his two best friends if said conversation gets within hailing distance of his past.

“Because you need to talk about this, whatever it is,” Bones says. “It’s eating you up.”

Jim pulls his hands off of his eyes, tries to blink away the spots. “What do you want to know?” If he’s doing this, he won’t make it easier on them than it is on him. That’d be  _ illogical _ .

As if on cue, Spock speaks. “The most pertinent information would be what is causing you the largest portion of distress.”

Jim wants to make a snappy retort, fight back more, but he’s fucking exhausted all of a sudden and his moods change so quick that he probably  _ could _ pass as a teenage girl. He just wants to sleep. 

He sits back down on the edge of the bed. “I was on Tarsus IV.” He looks Spock dead in the eye for a few moments, then turns his stare to Bones. McCoy shows more reaction than Spock, of course, face stretched into surprise, and then twisting into a grimace.

“Jesus, kid.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Alright. Here’s the deal: I clear you for duty, if and  _ only  _ if you go find someone to distract you or whatever anytime you want to punch something. And you have to come by here once a week.”

“Deal,” Jim says, the words spilling out of his mouth quicker than he thought possible. Once a week doesn’t mean he has to say anything about anything; he just needs to prove he’s still fit for duty. 

“There are better ways to...” Bones swallows. “There are better ways to cope than punching shit so hard you hurt yourself and skipping meals. You figure out something healthy that works for you, and you’re good.” He clears his throat. “But, if you end up here again--”

“Yeah, I get it.” Kirk stands back up again, and this time Bones steps away from him. “I’m going to go back to my quarters and scream with the soundproofing on.”

“Jim,” Spock says, stepping between him and the door.

“ _ Yes? _ ” Jim doesn’t push him out of the way because that’d kind of ruin the whole ‘yes Bones, I’m going to take care of myself for real now’ thing he’s started. He doesn’t want to have to break out another traumatic childhood event to scare Spock off like he did with Bones.

Spock’s eyes flicker over to where Bones is standing, behind Jim and to his left.

“Keep an eye on him, Spock,” Bones sighs, and when Jim turns to look at him he’s sitting on the counter, giving them both a look. “God knows he needs it.”

Spock nods, then steps aside, letting Jim out of the room. He draws side by side with Jim as soon as they’re in the hallway, and they walk back to his quarters silently.


End file.
